Ellie sat by the window of her bedroom in the Stanhope mansion. If only the sun would break through the heavy gray fog blanket that obscured the usually magnificent view! Thankful that for once she had a few minutes to herself, she breathed a sigh of relief. Ever since she’d arrived in the city, life had galloped at a pace that sometimes left her disoriented. After her first solo at Bayview Christian, she’d been deluged with invitations to sing, thanks to an enterprising reporter who’d been in church that Sunday. He’d helped launch her whirlwind rise to fame with a glowing review of her solo in the San Francisco Chronicle. Then he periodically added tidbits guaranteed to pique the interest of persons looking for something new and worthwhile.
A demanding knock sounded on Ellie’s door. Before she could respond, it slammed open. Beryl Westfield, face contorted with fury, rushed in. “You innocent-faced minx! Have you seen this?”
The discordant voice jerked Ellie from her solitude. She peered at Beryl. Impeccably dressed as usual, the hatred in Beryl’s black eyes made Ellie cringe. Beryl flung a copy of the Chronicle at her and demanded, “Read that!”
Ellie caught the paper before it struck her in the face. She glanced down. Her image stared back at her from beside the bold headline: SIERRA SONG BIRD SOARS.
“What’s wrong?” Ellie faltered. “It’s just an article.”
“Just an article?” Beryl raved, hands clenched into fists. She took a menacing step toward Ellie. “Read the whole thing!”
Ellie blinked. Had Beryl gone crazy, to come tearing in, raging like this?
“Read it!”
Ellie shrank from the older woman, who stood watching her like an avenging angel. No, more like someone under Satan’s control. Beryl evidently wouldn’t leave until she got what she’d come for. Ellie read the headline again, then the article:
SIERRA SONGBIRD SOARS
San Franciscans are taking note of a newcomer to our fair city. Miss El- lianna Sterling first captivated the congregation (and this reporter) at Bayview Christian Church with her remarkable voice. Miss Sterling is the protégée of Mrs. Charles Stanhope, well-known benefactress and champion of the downtrodden.
Sought after for soirees and musicales by San Francisco’s finest, the Sierra Songbird, as she is known, is winning both high praise and our hearts. Her modest dress, simple ballads—including some she has written—and her hymns have shaken San Francisco. Sterling’s simplicity and lack of vanity impress even the most jaded music lovers. She prefaces the heartfelt rendition of her signature song, “It Is Well with My Soul,” with the story of how it came to be written. Few of us remain dry-eyed when confronted by the author’s unwavering faith.
Neither can we resist the expression on the songbird’s face when she sings, “ ‘Even so, it is well with my soul.’ ” It bears mute but compelling testimony: Whatever others choose to believe, it truly is well with Ellianna Sterling’s soul.
The Sierra Songbird is often accompanied by Edward Stanhope, whose proficiency at the piano has until now been unsuspected. The dark-haired man and the yellow-gowned singer make a striking couple. One cannot help wondering if there would be wedding bells as well as church bells in their future were it not for Edward’s engagement to Miss Beryl Westfield.
Tickets are now being offered at premium prices for a concert benefiting Mrs. Stanhope’s favorite charity, The Occidental Mission Home for Girls. It is one event this reporter plans to cover, and not just to get a story.
Ellie let the paper slip through her fingers to the rich Oriental rug. She had run the gamut of emotions while reading it. Joy. Excitement. Gratitude for the reporter’s kind words about her singing. The thrill of knowing God was using her to touch lives. But the comment about a wedding and church bells destroyed Ellie’s pleasure and filled her with disgust. She jumped from her chair and faced Beryl.
“Why did the reporter have to spoil all the nice things he said by hinting at a romance between Edward and me?” she cried. “It isn’t true, Miss Westfield. Edward is my friend, nothing more.”
Beryl’s eyes narrowed into cat’s eyes. “If that’s true, then why has he been making me a laughingstock by escorting you all over the city?”
“We always have a chaperone,” Ellie told her. “Maria or one of the other maids accompanies us.”
Beryl brushed her comment aside. “Even if I believed you, which I don’t, it doesn’t matter. My friends mock me because Edward is never available when I want him.” She drew herself up to her full height and glowered down at Ellie. “Edward has also begun to hint that perhaps we aren’t suited for one another. I pleased him well enough until you came.” Venom dripped from every word.
Snippets of a conversation from weeks earlier popped into Ellie’s mind:
“Sometimes I don’t like her myself.”
“ You’re going to marry someone you don’t like?”
“I need a wife.”
“ You mustn’t marry anyone you don’t love with all your heart.”
“Comparing a girl like you with Beryl Westfield makes a man wonder.”
“Well?” Beryl’s harsh voice sent the memory flying, but not before Ellie’s heart leaped. She’d come to like Edward—first because he reminded her of Josh, then for his dedication to helping her succeed. If he was having second thoughts about joining his life with Beryl, it was all to the good.
Ellie carefully hid her elation at the thought. “I have told you the truth, Miss Westfield. I have nothing more to say. Now will you please leave my room?”
Beryl’s face went chalk white. She raised one hand as if to strike. Then she said, “Watch your step. To quote that Bible you so piously hide behind while trying to worm your way in where you don’t belong, ‘Pride goeth before a fall.’”
“It’s actually ‘Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall,’” Ellie told her.
The unwelcome guest gave Ellie another scorching look and marched out. Shaken, Ellie sank back into her chair. “Lord, what am I doing here?”
“Trust Me.”
Ellie buried her face in her hands and cried out, “I do trust You, but it’s hard! I haven’t done anything to deserve such treatment.”
“Neither did My Son.”
The silent reminder poured healing into Ellie’s hurting heart. She continued to sit by the window and look out into the gray day, taking stock of her present life. At times, her St. Louis childhood seemed distant and unreal. Even her years on the Diamond S were gradually losing their luster when compared with the glory of rising from obscurity to being sought after. Only her love for her family and Joshua remained constant.
“I’ll enjoy it while it lasts,” she vowed. “Someday Joshua and I will be reunited. In the meantime, I’m saving money in case Tim needs it. Also, when the time comes, I won’t have to go to Joshua like a penniless beggar girl.”
Joy welled into Ellie’s throat and rippled out. “I’m also helping Josh, even though he doesn’t know it. Lord, thank You for making Mr. Stanhope so understanding. When I told him I wanted to send my tithe to Christ the Way Church anonymously he arranged it. I’m sure he never said a word to Mrs. Stanhope or Edward or they would have asked why I’d do such a thing.”
The solemn chime of a clock put an end to Ellie’s rejoicing. She’d be late for her music lesson if she didn’t hurry. She washed her hands and face, tidied her shining hair, and ran downstairs, carrying her hooded cloak. To her dismay, Beryl stood with Edward in the great hall. Her rigid stance showed she still burned with anger.
Edward looked up. “Beryl reminded me of an important engagement this afternoon, Ellie. She’s helping Mother with the arrangements for the benefit concert, and of course they need my expert advice. We’ll drop you off on the way, but I don’t know how long it will take. I’ve told our carriage driver to pick you up after your lesson. Sorry.”
“There’s no need to be sorry.” Ellie slipped into her cloak and followed them out to the carriage. She climbed in, being careful to leave the place beside Edward for Beryl. When they reached her music teacher’s studio, she stepped down and said, “Be careful. It looks like the fog is getting worse.”
“We will. I’ll see you at home later,” Edward called as they trotted away.
Ellie hurried inside, glad to get out of the penetrating moisture that threatened to soak through her heavy cloak. She greeted her teacher and the lesson began. Partway through, however, a message came. Her instructor read it and blanched.
“I have to leave, Miss Sterling. A dear friend has taken ill and needs me.”
“It’s all right,” Ellie assured him. “I can wait here. The Stanhope carriage will come for me at the regular time.”
He looked dubious but apologized again and left.
Ellie busied herself with straightening piles of music that lay askew, but soon tired of the task. Why stay in this empty studio when it was less than a mile from home? She had time to walk and be there long before the driver left to pick her up.
Once outside, she hesitated. “Don’t be foolish,” she told herself. “You can’t get lost between here and Nob Hill.” Ellie pulled the hood of her cloak over her hair, clutched its voluminous folds around her body against the encroaching cold, and confidently started up the street.
All too soon, the fog thickened. It changed to a drizzle. Its eerie drip-drip added to the chilling atmosphere. Ellie increased her pace, anxious to get out of the murk that swallowed up the street signs. A few blocks farther on, she murmured, “Better to wait in the studio than in this pea soup.” She shivered with cold and turned to retrace her steps. Her foot slipped on a pebble. Ellie tried to regain her balance, but fell, hitting her head on the cobblestone street.
Dizzy and disoriented, Ellie staggered to her feet and rubbed her throbbing head. She tried to remember whether she should be walking up the hill or down. Did it really matter? If she kept walking, she’d get somewhere. Yet each uncertain step brought new fear. Where was she?
She rounded a corner. Dim lights flickered through the fog curtain. Thank goodness! Light meant help lay just ahead. Ellie broke into a run. More lights appeared, still faint, but enough to show alleys on both sides of the street. Stairs led to second and third stories. Dark, shadowy forms huddled in gaping doorways. Muffled voices speaking a language Ellie didn’t understand floated through the fog.
She stopped short and peered through the gloom at a brightly colored banner with strange black symbols. Her heart hammered with fear. Confused by the fog, she had stumbled into Chinatown—the last place she should be alone with night coming on.
Yellow slave traders. The scourge of San Francisco. Opium dens. Children of Darkness. Many good people in Chinatown, but a stain on the city.
Ellie’s stomach lurched. She turned to flee, but a heavy hand caught her by the shoulder. A disembodied voice gloated, “I’ve got you now. ’Tis about time.”
Ellie tried to wrench free. She could not. She tried to scream. Only a squeak came out of her constricted throat, so muffled by the fog no one except her captor would ever hear her. Dear God, why didn’t I stay at the studio where I belonged?